


Treason and Plot

by biscuitsy



Series: The London Excursion [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not a lot of detail to it, Pre-Relationship, Sickfic, a bit of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 14:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13742700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biscuitsy/pseuds/biscuitsy
Summary: In the weeks since the bombing of the London Eye, the civil unrest reached a peak not seen since Null Sector. The crime was quickly claimed by the anti-omnic group responsible, almost nonchalantly candid in their admittance to the bombing, spewing the same reasoning that all anti-omnic groups gave- “they are not like us”.It irked Hanzo greatly. He had never been overly fond of omnics, and certainly was in no rush to champion their rights. He still did not know how he felt about Genji’s omnic master. But the reasoning was flimsy at best- “not like us” was a broad statement, certainly true, but devoid of any sane reason for planting a bomb on a popular tourist attraction. By that same reasoning, however, he could put down people he saw as unfit to walk the earth- those who would murder for fun, for sport. For no other reason than to assert power and dominance. For the same reasons that the yakuza back home would sometimes give.Because Hanzo was not like them. Or, at least, he was trying not to be.





	Treason and Plot

In the weeks since the bombing of the London Eye, the civil unrest reached a peak not seen since Null Sector. The crime was quickly claimed by the anti-omnic group responsible, almost nonchalantly candid in their admittance to the bombing, spewing the same reasoning that all anti-omnic groups gave- “they are not like us”.

It irked Hanzo greatly. He had never been overly fond of omnics, and certainly was in no rush to champion their rights. He still did not know how he felt about Genji’s omnic master. But the reasoning was flimsy at best- “not like us” was a broad statement, certainly true, but devoid of any sane reason for planting a bomb on a popular tourist attraction. By that same reasoning, however, he could put down people he saw as unfit to walk the earth- those who would murder for fun, for sport. For no other reason than to assert power and dominance. For the same reasons that the yakuza back home would sometimes give. 

Because Hanzo was not like them. Or, at least, he was trying not to be.

 _A murderer trying to be less like a murderer by murdering other murderers_ , he thought bitterly. An odd way to go about things. 

If tonight went well, it would be the last killing he would have to undertake on this mission. The puppet master behind the recent bombing, potentially funding all manner of anti-omnic groups, was due to meet a beneficiary at one of the many docks lining the Thames.

“Why’s it always a dock at night?” wondered McCree aloud, setting himself up on the corner of the roof opposite Hanzo’s. Stationed like this they could watch different entry points for any activity, and they had the luck of finding roofs with no easy access to the rooftop. As safe as stakeout positions got, in Hanzo’s experience. “‘S like a damn movie.”

Hanzo noted how thick and stuffy McCree’s voice sounded. The endless rain and cold had clogged his sinuses, he figured. “It is a neutral place, common ground for two differing people to meet. To go to one person’s place or the other is far too dangerous for the guest.”

“...But a dock? Unless they plan on givin’ someone cement shoes and tossin’ ‘em in the river, there’s just no reason for a dock in particular.”

“Would you prefer they met at the local fast food joint?”

That got a snort from McCree, and he put on some terrible impression of a grimy London accent. “Ah, yes, I will buy a metric ass-ton of illegal weaponry from you, and I will have fries with that.”

Hanzo smiled into his comm. “They are due in ten minutes. Clean radio from here on out.”

“Roger that.” Hanzo watched McCree shimmy down into place, laid flat behind a sniper’s rifle. To see McCree wield anything beside Peacekeeper seemed wrong, and it still surprised the archer that McCree would have half the patience for a stakeout. Blackwatch training, he figured- his patience may very well have been learned the hard way. 

Hanzo knocked an arrow, and waited.

He had learned the patience to sit in one place for hours, as a young boy. They were the same lessons he learned to sit _seiza_ until his legs stopped aching, when his tutor taught him perfect posture and correct manners. When he was taught the patience to line up the perfect shot, and exactly how and when to fire it. Waiting came naturally to Hanzo Shimada. 

Judging by how he fidgeted and wriggled and grumbled and coughed the entire three hours they were perched on the rooftops, waiting did not come so easily to Jesse McCree, and his hard-learned patience reached its limit. The rain spilled off the brim of his stetson and onto his serape, and he was well and truly soaken through.

“This is bullshit,” he grumbled, voice infinitely more ragged than it had been hours ago. “Winston, you said there was gonna be some clandestine dock meeting here tonight.”

“Winston is on the line with our other third party right now. Stand by, agents.” Athena was sharp and quick to the more, sounding more tense than Hanzo thought an AI should be. Some fumbling over the static and the sounds of a sigh only a gorilla could make came next.

“I’m sorry, agents. There’s been some developments… The third party who tipped us off to the bomb has been murdered.”

“Ah, shit,” said McCree over the rain. Hanzo wordlessly echoed the sentiment with a slump of his shoulders.

“Shit indeed. Turns out the intel we got differed between different people, and several contacts were murdered earlier on today. Have you had any trouble so far tonight?” Winston’s voice was hitched, trying to hide the worry.

“None,” Hanzo chimed in, briefly scanning the area for any sign their position were not so secret as he previously thought. “It has been completely quiet. Could we have been compromised?”

“We have reports that at least twenty different meeting locations were conjured up. It may be that the group couldn’t watch them all and catch us out, and that you two have gotten incredibly lucky. Retreat to the safe house as quick as you can, with utmost discretion if you could. I’ll keep you updated.”

“Copy.” Hanzo’s voice was clipped, annoyed at having waited in the rain for a target that did not arrive, but this was far from the worst thing to have happened. He considered himself lucky he was not jumped by hired guns, and that the only thing lost was their time. The sound of a plastic case being wrenched open and slammed shut from the other roof alerted him that McCree did not feel the same.

“With _discretion_ , McCree.” Hanzo folded Stormbow away with a precision perfected over years and hauled them over his shoulders and jumped to the adjacent rooftop. McCree’s face was hidden beneath his hat, and a trademark cigar hung from his lip, uselessly unlit against the rain. It struck Hanzo as almost hilarious, were it not for the defeated anger that simmered below McCree’s rain-soaked frame.

“Sorry.” McCree did not sound sorry at all. He coughed raggedly and hauled the rifle case over his shoulder, grumbling the entire way down the side of the building and into the alleyways. McCree blazed a trail with all the vigour of a corpse- slow, stumbling, stiff. Hanzo saw him lean into the walls he walked past several times.

“Are you unwell?” he eventually deigned to ask, watching McCree gently lay his forehead against a lamppost.

“Warm. Angry. Tired. I ‘unno.”

It was unlike McCree to say anything less than an entire paragraph at one time, and now that the gunslinger clipped his words Hanzo found himself missing the constant noise of McCree prattling on. “It is freezing tonight,” he said matter-of-factly, as if it might reverse the hot flush McCree spoke of.

“Prolly just a cold.” McCree rolled off the lamppost and into the last corner, coming up on the maisonette they had been calling home for the past three months. The lights inside came on softly as Athena warmed the apartment up for them, a welcome beacon that Hanzo had gotten all too used to while living here. The AI unlocked and opened the doors for them as they approached, and Hanzo immediately shed himself of his gear and soaking jacket.

“Perhaps you should shower, McCr--”

“Bed,” the gunslinger corrected Hanzo, before he even had the chance to finish his suggestion. McCree shed everything he had on- rifle, stetson, jacket and jeans- in a wobbled line towards his bed, collapsing into it and curling up in the too-thin sheets. “Feel like shit.”

“...Probably just a cold,” Hanzo agreed, minutes too late, and looked to the ceiling. “Athena, can you turn up the heating?”

“Certainly.” The pleasant voice chimed back from the walls, cool and compliant, and the air warmed just a little. Hanzo muttered a thank you as he walked to the kitchen, pulled a plastic flask from the cupboard and filled it with the water he kept in the fridge. “Because I refuse to drink dirty tap water,” he had told McCree, and they didn’t own a filter. He put his definitely-clean-and-not-overpriced flask of water on McCree’s bedside, and settled down for first watch.

When the sunrise tentatively peaked at the horizon later and Hanzo decided it was time to switch, he found McCree looking worse for wear. Definitely sick. Tonight, just this once, he could forgo his watch.

“Athena, please take over security while we sleep. I shouldn’t be more than a few hours.”

“Of course, Agent Shimada. Security protocols engaged, apartment is on lockdown. Enjoy your rest.”

Feeling more guilty than he should for asking such things of an AI, Hanzo hunkered down on the sofa for his few precious hours of sleep.

When he awoke, it was to the sound of retching in the bathroom.

Hanzo stumbled up, confused through the haze of what little sleep he managed, arms still crossed from his rest on the sofa. He was on his feet before he truly had any idea of where he was going, and his body took him toward the sounds of McCree being violently ill as his mind caught up.

“McCree?” he hazarded, knocking on the door and letting himself in. A sickly warm haze and the smell of yesterday’s dinner hit him, and it was at this moment that Hanzo remembered how much he hated anything to go with vomit. “McCree- hold still.”

His hands found their way into McCree’s hair before his mind supplied any instructions, roughly combing back the locks and keeping them away from McCree’s mouth as he prayed a most violent prayer to the porcelain gods. The gunslinger eventually pillowed his cheek on the arm resting along the toilet seat, and Hanzo couldn’t stop the slight grimace that quirked his face.

“H-Han--” 

McCree was flushed, stammering, shuddering horribly and Hanzo could not remember ever seeing him so weak. It unsettled him greatly- ‘weak’ and ‘McCree’ did not usually go in the same sentence.

“Back to bed, come.” Satisfied that McCree had nothing left to throw up he heaved the hefty weight of him over his shoulder, half-dragging the man back to his assigned bed and into the cocoon of sheets he had made in his fitful slumber. Hanzo swung his hand around and pulled the sheets from his own bed, throwing them over McCree in a single, fluid motion. 

“F-fuck, ‘s too warm.” The gunslinger’s voice was somewhere close to broken, rasping horribly from his throat.

“You have to keep warm-- don’t throw my sheet off,” Hanzo said, sounding vaguely annoyed as McCree tried to kick the extra blanket away. He replaced it and tucked the sides under McCree, watched as the cowboy cocooned himself further and turned towards the cool breeze coming from the vents above him.

“I will supply a mildly cool breeze for Agent McCree,” Athena chirped from the walls. “Agent Shimada, do you need my assistance?”

“I… yes, go on.” _I know how to treat the flu_ , Hanzo thought with some distaste, perhaps more insulted than he should be at an AI.

“My sensors indicate Agent McCree is running a fever. You will need to supply him fluids until it breaks. If you have mild pain relief, it might also make him more comfortable. He might also be bed-ridden for a few days. Other than that, this seems like an ordinary case of influenza, and does not need to be treated further.”

Hanzo nodded to himself. An ‘ordinary’ case of the flu. For how weak it made his partner, Hanzo thought ‘ordinary’ was not the right word at all.

“You should have told me you were feeling unwell last night, McCree.” Hanzo’s voice carried across the apartment from the kitchen as he made up another flask. All his precious bottled water, gone to a man who would happily drink straight from the tap if he could stand. The cupboards and fridge produced little else that would help- no medicine, little food, and a single biotic canister left. Instead he fetched a bucket from under the sink, worried for the state of the carpets should McCree be sick again.

“W-wouldn’t’ve mattered, would it? Got a--” A pause, a pained inhale from McCree, some shuddering as he came down from the ache. “Got a job to do.”

McCree was not wrong. As if on cue the comm chirped. “Winston has news for you, agents,” Athena supplied. “Patching you in.”

“McCree is sick?” came Winston’s voice from the walls, gruff and booming, and Hanzo suddenly missed Athena’s calm melodic tone. 

“Yes, the flu. I am taking care of it. Athena said you had news?” Hanzo walked between the beds and laid one flask on the bedside table, coaxing the other one to McCree. 

“Oh, uh-- yes. New intel. We had several moles report a meeting in the Shard building. Not only that, but we have a visual on the target this time.” The gorilla sounded more excited than was perhaps appropriate. “And get this- it’s an omnic.”

That gave Hanzo pause. “An… omnic? Leading an anti-omnic terrorist group?”

“Right? I’ve not heard of any particular motive yet, but she’s definitely the one at the top. Sending a picture through now, one moment…”

From one of Athena’s sensors on the walls came a projected picture. The omnic had a sleek, slender design to her head, her one single eye a circle around the otherwise dark expanse of her face. Hard light beamed out the top and sides of her head and trailed down her shoulders to resemble hair, her posture perfect.

“Her name is Lustre. Works as a prosecutor in Soho, specialising mainly in cases involving omnic rights. Public record says she has been at the job for a number of years and has started going into politics.” Winston sounded proud at the intel, sure of himself, and Hanzo gave the projected picture his best squint.

“You are sure? Where did you get your intel from?”

“One of our moles in the group. They had to go dark after the murders, but they have come back with an astounding amount of info that they got from a, uh… acquaintance.”

“Acquaintance.” Hanzo deadpanned. He was starting to resign himself to another night of sitting on a rooftop doing absolutely nothing with a slight chance of getting jumped by hired thugs.

“Yes, I know, it sounds very suspicious but… we have video evidence of her planning the terrorist attack.”

“Show me.”

No sooner had Hanzo said it did the picture flicker out and the video take its place, playing in midair as Hanzo held the flask out for McCree to take. Some lucidity returned to the cowboy and he sat up, eager to see.

The video was a dutch-angled recording from the corner of a room, looking down on Lustre and several human bodyguards. They stood stock still in her presence, not a hair out of place as she walked a pristine line along their ranks and back again.

“--cal gangs have caused a decent amount of unrest, but they are quickly being seen as nothing more than a nuisance,” she spoke, her voice soft and lilting slightly. “We could fund them for several centuries, the poor things are so happy with any pittance we give them, but the results are not quite what we hoped. People are standing up to them now that the Saviours were eliminated. Even the omnic beggars are standing up to them- _beggars_! They’ve outlived whatever usefulness they had.”

There was a perfectly precise sway to her hips as she turned, glancing at her metallic nails in a disturbingly human manner. “We can kill off the remaining gangs, replace them with some hired muscle. At least _they_ might actually get things done, yes?” She spoke to the last man in line, who stiffened under her gaze.

“Yes. Are we to go undercover?” he smoothed out, not nearly smooth enough to hide his fear.

“Yes, yes. Disguise yourself as gangs, thugs, whatever you like. Just put the D4’s in their place, yes?”

The video gave out, the scene replaced by a flashing purple skull, before it flickered out of existence altogether.

“S-son of a bitch,” McCree croaked from his cocoon, falling back against the headboard. “She orchestratin’ unrest against her own kind?”

“It seems that way,” Winston rasped similarly.

“What’s a… ‘D4’?” Hanzo cut in, arms folded.

“‘S a slur. Some kinda ranking for people- A1’s are the people at the top, D4’s are the ones at the bottom. She’s gonna kill anyone she’s deemed trash. Son of a _bitch_.” McCree turned in on himself, head still pointed towards the cool breeze Athena supplied him, and groaned quietly.

“She will not. We’ll find her.” The assurance tore itself from Hanzo before he had time to mull it over. 

“Well, Hanzo… _you_ will find her.” Winston bleated sheepishly. “If McCree’s sick, we can’t send him on this mission.”

“When is this meeting you spoke of?” Hanzo rounded on the comm, somehow already knowing the answer.

“T-minus eight hours.”

Tonight. The end to their London excursion was staring them in the face. Once this Lustre was taken care of, they could go home. And for how ready he was to leave this rainy city, Hanzo’s chest twisted, and he wasn’t sure why.

“I… don’t feel right about leaving McCree in this state.” Yes, that must be it- McCree was sick. It wouldn’t be prudent to leave him suffering by himself, where he could choke on his own vomit. Wasn’t it? “We are low on supplies and I fear McCree will be sicker longer than necessary if I don’t restock now.”

“I can help with that!” Winston had either been replaced with Lena Oxton on the other end of the comm, or the gorilla’s voice had hitched several octaves. Hanzo jumped in a small show of surprise.

“...Agent Tracer,” he greeted, pinching his brow. “How long have you been there.”

“Whole time, chuck. I’m sending you some help for your Jesse burdens.”

“He’s not-- what are you sending?” The archer swore inwardly at his slip.

“Food and medicine. Y’know, stuff. Should be with you in the hour! The password is ‘green scarf’.”

Hanzo paused. “Why do I need a pass--”

“I’ll forward you your directives later, Hanzo. Take care of McCree until then!” Winston’s tone cut across Tracer’s trademark giggling, and the comm chirped shut.

Wonderful.

Not forty minutes later, the doorbell rang. The notes of Westminster Quarters rang out in a tinny chime and Hanzo nearly jumped out of his skin. The bell had not rang the entire time they lived there- he was not so careless as to give away the address. Picking up Stormbow and three arrows from their resting place against the wall he approached the door, his beloved weapon at half draw as he paced down the corridor in a manner that would have made his ninja ancestors proud.

“Athena, open the door slowly.”

With a silent compliance the door opened dramatically slow, the arc of the door and the draw of Hanzo’s bow string synchronised until the arrow pointed at the face of whatever intruder stood before him.

“Jesus christ, you really do use a bow. Thought Lena was having me on… oh, uh, green scarf.”

The woman before him was a small, slight thing, bundled up against the rain in a sleek red overcoat topped with a green scarf. Her red hair spilled over her shoulders, the ends wet from the weather, and she held out a plastic bag.

“Got the food, medicine, some treats for McCree... Mind if I come in?”

Hanzo came down from the draw and immediately felt a little sheepish. “Agent Tracer did not tell me it would be delivered in person. My apologies.”

“S’alright, can’t be too careful in this Overwatch business. I’m Emily.” She genially stuck out her hand and Hanzo took it, shaking it briefly before standing aside.

“You are an agent?”

“No, no- I’m Lena’s girlfriend.”

It came back to him suddenly- McCree mentioning an ‘Emily’ back during the Owl mission- and Hanzo nodded in understanding. He bowed at the waist to her obvious delight, if the giggle was anything to go by.

“Nice to meet you, too! Gosh, you’re nice.”

“I had a bow drawn on you not a moment ago, Miss Emily.”

“Yeah... it was awesome, though. Looks rather dashing on you.” Her tone brooked no lie, her eyes trained reverently on Stormbow as Hanzo leaned it against the wall.

With a smile Hanzo didn’t realise he was wearing, the archer thought this girl was indeed perfect for Agent Tracer.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Hanzo could afford to indulge in her preening him- he did nearly shoot her, after all. Emily flashed him a wink and walked forward, knowing exactly where to go.

“Bet you didn’t know I keep this apartment in check when it’s not being used, huh? Technically, I’m on the Overwatch payroll. So, where’s the sickie?”

On cue, McCree groaned from his makeshift cocoon. “Nooo… take me with you, Han.”

“I don’t see you in ages and _that’s_ the welcome I get? The cheek of you,” Emily scolded, sitting down on the edge of the bed and immediately pulling a brightly coloured drink from the bag alongside a box of pills. “Some Lucozade for you, to replace your electrolytes, aaand some ibuprofen for the pain. Don’t be a baby about it.”

Hanzo watched McCree take them with reluctance better suited to a child taking their cough medicine. His comm chirped in and the archer barely noticed it, until Athena spoke from the walls once more. “Your directives are ready, Agent Hanzo. The meeting is being held at one o’ clock tomorrow morning. I have listed several locations for you to scout from, as well as directions on how to get there.”

Hanzo barely took his eyes off McCree, making sure he drank his sugary abomination until he was certain he would not die of dehydration. Satisfied the gunslinger would not sweat himself into a withered husk, Hanzo nodded. “I will make my way there now.”

With Stormbow folded in a guitar-shaped case, Hanzo threw on the darkest clothes he had. The same hoodie he wore on the Eye mission went over his favourite black jacket- the one with a dragon on the arm- and he pulled the hood over to find it still smelled vaguely like the Thames.

“You look like you’re gonna mug me,” Emily supplied, getting up from McCree’s bedside to fetch him yet more blankets. McCree did not stir beneath his blankets, and Hanzo wondered if the gunslinger had passed out already. “Call me if you need anything.”

Hanzo doubted there was any practical help Emily would be capable of, but he nodded all the same. His boots creaked the floorboards as he strode for the door.

“Han.”

The weak voice from the shell of blankets was so pitiful and did not suit McCree at all. Hanzo gravitated towards it and peered over the swath of fabric.

“Yes?”

Wrenching his arm free of the sheets McCree grabbed Hanzo’s sleeve, pulled on it slightly, furrowed his brows into obvious, feverish worry.

“Don’t like you going by yourself… What if you need backup?”

“I can handle one assassination, McCree. You needn’t worry. I won’t be engaging anyone.”

Hanzo noticed Emily put her fingers in her ears. Best if she pretended she did not hear that. McCree’s mouth thinned, corners pulled back into a grimace, and he fell back into the cushions.

“...Don’t fall in the Thames again.”

Hanzo smirked. “I will be back tomorrow. Goodnight, McCree.”

He left McCree to Emily’s care and strode into the night.

The shard was an hour and a half walk from the safehouse. For anyone willing to walk, all of central London was accessible on foot, and the dark skies and even darker nights gave Hanzo all the cover he needed. The rain masked his footsteps, every sound he could conceivably make, and for once Hanzo was grateful for the endless precipitation the English weather was known for.

The orders were simple- shoot, and leave. This was a mission based on Blackwatch operations, the morality of it left to the two men who knew the simple truth of certain cases, that some people were too dangerous to be left alive. Corruption seemed to run deep in areas of London, and if presented evidence the authorities (and Lustre’s friends in high places) would conveniently lose the video footage. It would be better for Lustre to die a martyr for civil rights than to let her keep undermining her fellow omnics- it would be the ultimate revenge. That was what Hanzo figured, anyway.

The Shard seemed somewhat lacking next to the gleaming towers of London’s financial district, though some attempts had been made to modernise it. Portions of the exterior were lit up to match the buildings next door, curved lines running over the facade in pleasing waves replaced the straight lines it had originally been built with. When it was first built, the Shard was the tallest building in the country- not thirty years later it had been dwarfed by an apartment building next door. In a deserted apartment in the building adjacent to the Shard, Hanzo took up residence by the window with Stormbow in hand.

Men trickled into a room on the Shard’s 80th floor, a long disused space that once housed an office of some kind. Hanzo recognised the faces of most of them- members of parliament, though he could not put faces to any names. Hanzo hid behind the window frame as they secured the room, ushering in several omnics and then Lustre herself.

“Let’s make this brief, I’m bloody exhausted,” came her dulcet voice in Hanzo’s right ear. Her voice was quiet, muffled by distance- the bug Hanzo had jettisoned onto the window earlier had overshot the 80th floor just slightly. 

“At once, then…” A human male spoke up, reading info from a holotablet coming out of his wristwatch. “Unrest from the Eye incident is spiking about as much as we predicted. There is an… _incident_ with an omnic at least once a night, often more. Phase One has gone off without so much as a hitch, Madam.”

“Good.” Lustre yawned, an odd robotic sound that didn’t look right with no mouth to come from. “The Eye could have used some casualties, but.” She shrugged, playing with the hard light construct that made up her hair. “And prep for Phase Two?”

“Coming along. Three of our gang ex-beneficiaries have been… _taken care of_.”

“Can we stop with the euphemisms, David? They have been killed. Murdered. Just say it. Good grief…”

The chuckle of several men came over the comm at the expense of ‘David’. “Uh, yes… Three gangs have been wiped out, and our men will replace them within the week. We will then continue inciting riots, carrying out attacks and policing the streets until months end.”

“And Phase Three?” Lustre checked her nails again, and Hanzo wondered if they could even be damaged.

The was a pause before ‘David’ spoke again. “The good men and women of Talon have provided us with weaponry for our final assault on Westminster and the King’s Row slums, all the way from sunny Egypt. They will be shipped to us the day before we press our attack and our men at the docks will collect them.”

Hanzo’s heart skipped a beat. “Athena--”

“Already relaying intel to Winston. Weapon cargo will be intercepted.”

“And when Westminster goes up in flames,” Lustre drawled, voice high with self-admiration. “We rise up out of it. I take the stage and lead the people out of this muddied hell that London has become. From the ashes of this city, we establish the new status quo. That the strong survive, and that through conflict… we become strong.”

The words sounded familiar, ringing back through Hanzo’s mind with an accent that was definitely not of London origin-- somewhere in Africa--

Lustre sighed an admiring little sigh, one hand on her hip. “Akande certainly has a way with words, doesn’t he?”

Ogundimu. The frayed ends of half-remembered names and faces joined up in an instant- Akande Ogundimu, moniker Doomfist, member of Talon. Talon intended for this Lustre to fancy herself a modern day Guy Fawkes and destroy parliament, to instate one of their members at the prime minister’s seat, effectively giving Talon leadership of an entire country.

“What of us, madam?”

One omnic piped up from the line of people present. The metal flaps on his head were cast down, not unlike a dog flattening its ears against its head, his gaze set straight at the floor. “We have… we have family there, madam. Given our loyalty to you, how much notice of the attack could we expect?”

“Oh, hmm.” Lustre’s voice, the way she held herself, reeked of condescension. “Maybe they’ll just have to die for the cause?”

The dog-eared omnic said nothing. Lustre nodded to one of her human cohorts, who moved behind Dog Ears with little hesitation, and calmly put a gun to the back of his head.

“They could be martyrs. Looked up to by omnics and humans in better days for being victims of a once more violent, more vicious time. Remembered. Would that be alright?” Lustre came over saccharine, over-the-top, and Hanzo wondered if all her tactics were taken straight from a movie.

“...I would rather my family live to see those better days, madam.” Dog Ears spoke with the deadpan of a man who knew he had overstepped his boundaries. Who knew he was, in all likelihood, about to die. The humanity in the omnic’s voice startled Hanzo, who realised it was now or never.

The rotating blades of his scatter arrow hung in the air above the Shard, humming gently as they floated, honing in on their target as Hanzo lined up the shot. Inhaled through his nose, exhaled through his mouth.

The arrow flew.

It pierced the decades old glass with ease, ricocheting off the floor to bounce into the neck of every man and almost every omnic present. The flesh men writhed on the floor, windpipes severed and jugulars leaking, and quickly came to rest on the old carpet. Two figures left standing- Dog Ears and Lustre, leapt back for cover against opposite walls, cover that simply did not exist- for all the buildings in London they could have chosen, they chose the one with windows for walls. 

Through the fog which rolled in from the rainy sky, Lustre followed the new hole in the window up to Hanzo, and he let her look straight in his eye. He wondered if he could find the same fear that overtook humans as they looked down the arrow to their death, the wildness in their eyes as their life played out before them in a regretful record of mistakes.

He saw it, and let another arrow fly. It pierced the dead center of her circular eye, and she fell limp.

Dog Ears looked at Hanzo similarly, more fear present now than he ever had been while on the muzzle end of a gun. Hanzo paused, considering. He looked to the men and omnics he had felled, to the omnic who would shield herself with her brethren to gain power, how well she would have fit into the ranks of the Shimada-gumi-

 _But I am not like them._

And he did not take the shot. Making a show of putting Stormbow down, Hanzo watched Dog Ears as he ran from the room.

“Mission accomplished,” Hanzo said into his comm, slinging the guitar-shaped case back onto his shoulder.

“Excellent work. I’m sorry it came to this.” True to his words, Winston sounded unsure. Hanzo doubted he restarted Overwatch with the intent to kill anyone. “But you’ve undoubtedly thrown Talon into disarray over this. We’ll keep monitoring the situation on King’s Row, but you and McCree can come back to Gibraltar now.”

The twist in Hanzo’s chest returned. He paused on the rooftops, looking over out the wet city as the sky drizzled on, lights dazzling through the fog.

“...Might I ask for another week here?”

His request caught Winston off-guard, if the ape-ish grunting over the comm was any indication. “I thought you were both tired of the weather?”

“Yes, but McCree needs to recover. And I would like some time for myself here… if it is not too much trouble.”

The sound of smacking lips echoed over the comm- Winston was eating, pondering. “I’ll see what I can do.”

With Winston, that was as good as a yes. 

Taking the long way home to throw off any would-be followers, Hanzo walked the eerily quiet streets of London. The clock chimed seven in the morning when Hanzo stepped through the threshold of the apartment, Athena welcoming him home in her pleasant voice.

“Excellent work tonight, Agent Shimada. Winston is arranging your vacation time now, though he cannot guarantee a full week. In the meantime, might I suggest you and Agent McCree get some rest?”

Hanzo nodded, knowing that Athena would see it, and shed his bow for the last time that night. The apartment was dimmed, light streaming out the underside of the main room door to dance in muted colours. The TV was on when he entered with Emily curled up on the sofa, long asleep, and stirred at his entering.

“Mmff, hello,” she mumbled into the pillow, making a show of stretching. “I take it everything went alright?”

“As well as assassinations go, I suppose. Avoid the Shard for a while.” No sense in hiding it, Hanzo figured. Emily made a zipping motion over her mouth and stood, gathering her coat and scarf in an eager display of wanting to get back to her own bed.

“He woke up for a while, there,” she whispered, head inclining to the sleeping McCree. “Think he was going through the worst of his fever, he wouldn’t shut up. He does prattle on, doesn’t it?”

“If talking were an Olympic sport, I daresay McCree would be America’s National Hero. I am sorry you were on the receiving end.” The words came out fonder than Hanzo intended.

“Oh no no, he says the darndest things. Pretty funny, honestly.”

“What did he say?”

“Oh, you know. This and that. His life story. Talked up a storm about you, though.”

Hanzo’s keen eyes did not miss the odd expression Emily put on, nor the minxish glint in her eye.

“...What did he say.”

“Call me if you need anything!” Emily made for the door, the conversation officially over before Hanzo could even thank her.

“Miss Emily--”

“Have a good night! Or day! Whatever!”

Athena shut the door behind her, and her footsteps disappeared down the maisonette stairs. Yes, that one was definitely perfect for Agent Tracer.

A rustling from behind Hanzo tore his attention back to McCree’s bed and how the gunslinger writhed feverishly. A cold compress had long fallen off his head and dampened his pillow. One large clump of hair stuck to his forehead, almost in his eyes. Hanzo’s hand stopped midway through going to brush it back behind an ear. He shoved it in his pocket instead, wondering how a sweaty lock of hair could look so inviting to touch.

Blessedly, McCree awoke and Hanzo had a distraction from his thoughts.

“Hey, you.” The cowboy’s voice was strained thin and barely there, clearly an effort.

“Hey, yourself.”

“Didja get ‘em?”

“I got them.”

McCree smiled lopsidedly. “And you’re not soaked either. No Thames swimmin’ today.”

The archer smirked, sitting down on the side of McCree’s bed. “No, I decided against that.”

“Atta boy,” McCree crooned. His eyelids wavered with impending sleep.

“Our mission is complete. We can go back to Gibraltar now.”

“Oh. That’s…?” McCree started, eyebrows dipped as he searched for the right word, unable to even think of disguising his feelings through his fevered haze.

“Good?” Hanzo supplied.

“Yeah. That.” McCree sounded completely unconvinced, and Hanzo decided it was time to let him in on the news.

“I asked for an extra week here, so you can recover.”

“Oh!” McCree said, more brightly than anything else he had said that day. “Oh. That’s good, yeah… we could go back to that import shop you saw, get you some treats from home.”

“We could,” Hanzo agreed, and found himself looking forward to it.

“‘N we can go see the Tower of London, too. Go in all the crypts and dungeons.”

“A little macabre, but we could.”

“‘N we can go in that haunted house we saw by the Shard.”

“Over my dead body, McCree.”

It started a laugh out of McCree, hard enough to send him into a fit of coughs. Hanzo immediately passed the water left on the bedside and the cowboy drank deep of it, settling back into the cushions and looking at Hanzo as if he were some sort of guardian angel.

“‘M glad you’re alright. Knew you would be. Worried, though.”

Hanzo shrugged. “The outcome was never in doubt.”

“Yeah, yeah… jus’ lemme fuss over you sometimes.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes. _Says the man with a debilitating case of the flu_. “Sleep, McCree. You need it.”  
And like that, simply because Hanzo had told him to, McCree shut his eyes and his breathing evened out. Hanzo sighed and turns to the door, looking at the empty entryway where Stormbow rested in her case, remembering The Look that Tracer’s girlfriend had spread across her pixie-like face.

_What did he tell Emily?_

“Hey.”

Hanzo looked over his shoulder in time to see McCree’s hand rise up from the blankets, wobbling precariously, before settling on the archer’s head and ruffling the wet strands of hair.

“Good job today, partner.”

His hand flopped back down onto his chest, and McCree slept.

The twist in Hanzo’s chest unraveled, furled into a more pleasant shape, something resembling the haughtiness he carried himself with but slightly different- pride. Genuine, innocent pride for a good job. London was safe, and McCree was appreciative.

With less horror than he thought he would feel, Hanzo realised- he liked the feeling. He wondered if he was in store for more of it. McCree was certainly sweet on him these days, and for how much Hanzo avoided _emotions_ he knew a flirt when he saw one, and McCree had sent many a wink his way. The pet names McCree gave him became more than little annoyances, and Hanzo could not remember when he stopped begrudging the name “darlin’”.

Not for the first time, he wondered if a man such as himself, with his past and all its misdeeds, was allowed to find happiness in another human being. He decided that he wanted to find out.

Looking down at McCree once more, he let his hand drift to the cowboy’s forehead and finally, slowly, brushed away that stray lock of hair from his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Two fics in as many days, I am on a roll! One more piece after this and the London mission is over!


End file.
